


Flexibility

by LadyLuckDoubt



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Autofellatio, Exhibitionism, Masturbation, Other, Phoenix Wright Kink Meme, Rivalry, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuckDoubt/pseuds/LadyLuckDoubt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Juan Corrida sneaks into Matt Engarde's trailer to play a prank on him... and winds up seeing more than he expected to of his rival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flexibility

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on the Kink Meme asked for this:
> 
>  _Autofellatio: Otherwise known as the fine art of sucking your own dick. Whether it's alone or a show for a(n undoubtedly jealous) partner, and who the lucky guy is... anon is not picky. (Though something about Edgeworth in this scenario admittedly sounds pretty sexy.) Just one of the dudes enjoying the hell out of his own cock, that's all I ask._
> 
> And because I'd never written it and was up for a challenge, yeah, I went there.
> 
> One of the commenters who'd read this described Matt as a 'glorious little shit' and all I can say to that is 'yes, he is, and I love writing him.'

He didn't need to be in the studio, but green-eyed curiousity always got the better of him. It didn't help that he always seemed to be finishing up ("Because  _I'm_  more efficient and don't need as many takes and I'm not  _half_  the diva  _he_  is," he thought bitterly) while Engarde was still in makeup, being fawned over by a number of usually reasonably attractive, hopeful young women complimenting him on his perfect skin and good looks.

And bathed in golden dressing room light from around the mirror, Matt would agree. He preened and stretched and  _basked_  in the attention, and it made Juan sick. Sick with revulsion at his rival's not even hidden narcissism, and sick with a less palatable feeling: his own rage and jealousy.

  
Engarde had everything; he was the studio's pampered baby. It was rare for Global to go for someone so young and so unknown for a lead role like that, but Juan felt he secretly knew what the deal had been. Vasquez, after those legal troubles last year, had wanted to shift attention from the studio and onto a star; Engarde had probably amused her, dazzled her in some fashion other celebrity hopefuls hadn't. His favourite theory was the one where Engarde serviced Dee's heavies for her amusement; smug little perfect Matt doing family-unfriendly things with a number of men built like refrigerators all at once. This explained his overnight success, it explained Juan's lack of similar luck, and it was a refreshing thought when his own frustration got the better of him.

For Juan, it had been years of bit parts before he made it-- as the star of a kids' show that the over-sixties liked, and the kids themselves laughed at. It would be something if the kids were laughing  _with_  him, at the corny jokes and the upbeat songs, but they weren't: they saw the obviously low-budget special effects, the less than perfect puppeteering, the repetitive locations: and their laughter wasn't gentle and part of the game, there was a cruelty to it. 

"Fun for the under-sixes to the over-sixties," they said of his show, but the biting reality was that the under-sixes and the over-sixties were the only ones who genuinely enjoyed it.

Engarde's was different-- he was the Nickel fucking Samurai, basking in adoration from fans of all ages, the first of the samurai leads to be a heart-throb out of costume as well as  _in_  it. Why he needed all that makeup underneath the mask remained a mystery to Juan, who watched enviously as three makeup attendants fawned over him, their brushes gracing his skin, flirtatious chuckles leaving their lips-- and the breasts of  _one_  of them, he noticed angrily, brushing tantalisingly close to his face.

"Could you move back a bit?" one of them asked, and Engarde obliged, smirking as the young woman moved closer towards him, stretching lazily, the cat who'd definitely gotten the cream.

"You're so  _flexible_ ," one remarked, as the smug little shit grinned and flexed a muscle, that fringe draped across his face, hiding the scarring only Production and makeup-- and Juan, knew about. 

That hair was his saving grace.

A call from outside alerted them that filming was to start, and Juan wondered where Matt Engarde's snide confidence would be without that hair, without that veil over those disgusting and twisted scars. He'd be nobody, wouldn't he?

He made himself scarce, and clung to that thought.

  


* * *

  
Hours later, and Juan had skipped out of the studio on a shopping expedition. It was late but the studio was used to actors showing up at odd times; he smiled for the overly-friendly security lady as he made his way towards Engarde's dressing room, the brown paper bag from the drug store clasped tightly in one hand.

 

Of course, it wasn't as simple as it should have been; when he stepped inside, he could hear water running and a disjointed, slightly off-key voice singing along to itself:

 _Remember that tank top you bought me--  
You wrote "You're Gorgeous" on it  
You took me to your rented motor car  
And filmed me on the bonnet--_

 _Because you're gorgeous  
I'll do anything for you  
Because you're gorgeous--  
I know you'll get me, know you'll get me through--_

Typically self-absorbed and disgustingly self-centred, but unsurprising. 

Hearing the water stop abruptly and the rustle of a shower curtain, Juan panicked, quickly slipping into the open door of the closet, thankful there were slats in the front which were cracked enough, allowing him a view of the room. He could tell when the coast was clear-- slipping hair removal cream into Engarde's conditioning treatment could wait for another day, he supposed. Maybe tomorrow, while he was shooting something. 

He did not expect to see Matt, lithe and tanned and glistening with droplets of water, emerge from the ensuite, still humming the old song, sporting the beginning of an erection and the same smug smile that he'd been wearing when talking to the makeup girls earlier. He trotted over to the entrance to the room and locked it, causing Juan's breath to hitch in his throat, wondering how the hell he was going to get out  _now_ , his gaze moving to the slightly muddy footprint, so perfectly formed and in his size-- on the middle of the floor. He wanted to swear, and he hoped that Engarde, absorbed with his own image, would fail to notice it. It stood out like a piece of evidence in a cheaply made murder mystery. He silently prayed to anyone who might be listening that Engarde would knock himself out with some sleeping pills and fall into a deep slumber, allowing him sufficient time to obscure the footprint and make an undetectable escape.

 _Now_  what was the little shit doing? 

Too lazy to dry himself ("Maybe he has people for that,  _too_ ," Juan thought jealously) he flopped down on the enormous bed, sated and still half-hard, thoroughly pleased with himself. 

Juan wanted to turn away, to look at the floor, to close his eyes-- but he couldn't. It was about remaining aware of threats, it was a focus on survival. And... there was a disgusting, train-wreck appeal about watching Matt Engarde alone like this-- what on earth did he do with his time? Juan had suspected some shady secret-- girls, perhaps, maybe boys-- but the way he'd left his door unlocked suggested an almost innocence.

  
Engarde's dressing room was more like a miniature hotel room; it was small enough to be comforting, large enough to house a bed big enough for a threesome and a hot tub to clean up afterwards. His own, in comparison, was nothing like that, and stealing a jealous look at it before sneaking inside made him bubble with fury. The plan was simple: sneak in, find where the little prick kept his hair products, perform some simple chemistry, leave.

The way he was sprawled on the bed, his fingertips meeting tanned skin, playing with the droplets of water, running down over his chest, lazily rubbing around one nipple, pinching it until it hardened, and then moving onto the next-- it was fascinating, in a revolting sort of way. 

He breathed out, moaning quietly to himself, his left hand, sans that stupid bracelet he usually wore, slipping beneath him, tucking itself under his buttocks. 

From his strange vantage point, Juan was transfixed; if he could ignore who the body belonged to and the fact that there was a penis attached to it, this could be, in some sort of bizarre way, hot. Especially when he saw how awkward Matt looked as he writhed around, stretching behind him (he hated to admit it, but those makeup girls had been right in their flirtatious conversation-filler-- he  _was_  flexible. It  _must_  have been the stunt training and daily yoga sessions he swore by in the celebrity exposes-- human beings didn't normally move like that, half-bending over the side of the bed to retrieve something from the floor and then effortlessly drawing up onto the bed, shifting around, one-handedly uncapping a small bottle of  _something_  and delicately pushing his index finger into it.

He could smell it from the closet, the too-sweet and sickly aroma hitting him like a slap in the face drawing him back to reality, and he blinked as Engarde shifted back slightly, parting his legs a bit further to reveal a weirdly hairless body. The tan, in combination with the muscle definition and the moisture on it, and the lack of hair, and Matt's small, compact sort of size, not to mention his seemingly disproportionate cock-- almost rendered him inhuman. Or maybe that was the jealousy talking, Juan couldn't help but wonder, as slicked fingertips pushed between those usually sneering, ultra-confident lips, and he sucked the remnants of chocolate-scented  _stuff_  from them.

Surely he'd done porn before; that's what he  _looked like_ , Juan thought, as he gripped his thigh and pushed his legs apart roughly, grunting quietly to himself, his neck tilted forwards as he peered down as his own arousal. There was a seriousness and a reverence to the movement which made Juan feel awed and repulsed at the same time; it was that smell of the sickly sweet chocolate oil returning as Engarde bucked his hips up urgently, tipping the contents of the bottle over himself, moaning quietly, his eyes half-lidded and satisfied.

Juan watched carefully, no longer trying to rationalise or excuse his voyeurism, as Matt, concentrating a way that he usually didn't, fingered himself lightly, his right hand pushed down into the now-damp mattress of the bed, his left running skilled and light touches over his asshole and perineum. He seemed to be avoiding his erection, which Juan couldn't help but be painfully aware of-- maybe this was why women loved him; he didn't just have and maintain the perfect body, but he also had what looked like ten-inches of cock between his legs. It wasn't fair, he thought, and Engarde twitched slightly on the bed, throwing his head back as he lightly penetrated himself, his neck outstretched and his Adam's apple jumping with a rough, gravelly moan as he gave in to finally stroke himself with his other hand.

Juan bit his lip, expecting it to be over soon; but apparently his rival possessed more self-control than he'd previously suspected. Bringing himself to what appeared to be the brink or orgasm, he abruptly ceased, hands shifting from his body, a mewl of irritation escaping as though he were a whining puppy. 

He shifted again, scooting himself along the bed, wedging himself up against the headboard, his long legs stretching up effortlessly in front of him, behind his head. This wasn't just flexible, this was inhuman. But Juan still watched, trying to focus on the muscles rippling in the back of those thighs, the curve of a spine which shouldn't be able to bend like that, and his erection, huge and moist and--

From the position he was in, it was hard to tell what exactly Matt was doing; he hadn't changed his mind mindway and started some sort of weird yoga routine-- no-- the way his eyes were focused beneath him like that, his mouth slightly open, the way one hand was carefully directing his cock to his lips, he knew precisely what was happening. He watched as Engarde pushed himself further to align his body how he wanted it; the frustration and the odd moan almost made the other man  _want_  to see him succeed, though his envy longed for him to remain frustrated-- maybe not, maybe-- 

When Matt somehow curled himself around, his eyes tightly shut, his mouth clenched as though he couldn't let go, chestnut hair dangling over his face, still damp and inconvenient and no longer hiding his scarring-- as though he were afraid to lose some of it if he did, Juan's envy and disgust returned. Normal people had other people do this for them, Engarde was a narcissistic freak of nature. 

Still, as he seemed to be to millions of fans, he was compelling to watch.

 

No sooner had Juan blinked and it was all over; he'd shifted slightly and things had changed; he quivered slightly, moaning loudly, had frantically unfurled and lay there, spent, on his back, telltale streaks across his skin suggesting that he'd thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Juan felt as though he'd been holding his own breath the whole time, and exhaled as Engarde, panting and still twitching, idly ran fingers over his skin, wiping away his own fluid, drawing it up to his lips and licking them slowly as though he were savouring a popsicle. 

Jesus. There were big egos, and then there was Matt Engarde.

He may have sworn under his breath, and Matt rolled over from his supine position, glancing right in the direction of the closet door.

Juan prayed silently that this was a mere fluke. No  _way_  had he seen anything, the footprint on the floor wouldn't be visible-- he hoped-- from Matt's bed...

And Matt Engarde smiled, his brown eyes inviting and seductive and warm.

"I know you're jealous," he said, breathy yet taunting. "And I know you couldn't peel your eyes from me."

Juan swore quietly under his breath, opening the door a fraction, grateful, he realised when he did, for the change in position. He despised Engarde even more now than he thought possible.

"How does it feel to watch me do something you can only wonder about?" he asked sarcastically.

Taking the opportunity to not dignify that statement with a response, and to get the hell out  _now_ , Juan Corrida flung the door open, attention pointedly directed  _away from_  his rival as he unlocked the door and stepped out into the cool night breeze, furiously lamenting that he now had another reason to hate that narcissistic little prick.


End file.
